Phoebe blinked, an unexpected heat stealing through her. She couldn’t stop looking at him, her mouth going dry, because he was . . . magnificent. The way his clothes fit had hinted at the musculature of his body beneath them, but now it was revealed and she could only stare.
Wide shoulders, dense with muscle, and a chest that looked like it had been sculpted in loving detail by a master intent on capturing the ideal male form. Hard cut abs and narrow hips. Powerful arms that would have put a mountain climber to shame. Smooth bronze skin with a dusting of black hair . . .
He looked like a female fantasy come to life.
Her fingers itched to touch him. To feel all that power under her hands. To feel if he was as hard as he looked, if he was as strong, if his skin was as smooth and hot as she knew it would be.
So why don’t you?
Because of Charles. Because she was faithful. Because she was afraid that if she gave in to the need to touch Nero, something inside her wouldn’t be satisfied with what she had with Charles and never would be.
But Nero wasn’t Charles. He didn’t give her space. He reached for her, grabbing her hands in his and tugging them to him. Instinctively, she tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her, holding on tight. “Touch me,” he demanded, and pressed her palms to his chest.
It was as if he’d pressed her palms to a hot stove, except without the pain of a burn. Only firm, hard muscle. Only wild heat. Only the sharp jolt of physical reaction, as if she’d had an electric shock applied direct to her chest. It made her heartbeat go wild, made her breath get stuck in her throat.
He stared at her, black-eyed, intense. Then he pushed her hands down over his chest, over his hot skin and the hard ridges of his stomach, to where there was an arrow of black hair pointing downward. His free hand was already undoing the button on his pants, tugging down the zipper as he brought her hands even lower.
And Phoebe found she wasn’t resisting him anymore. It was as if she just . . . couldn’t. As if he’d hypnotized her, all her strength bleeding away as he guided her fingers relentlessly beneath the black cotton of his underwear.
“Nero,” she said in a voice that didn’t sound like her own. And what she’d been going to say she had no idea, because it all went out of her head as he curled her unresisting fingers around his hard, hot flesh. And held them there.
A shudder went through her and when he took his hand away, she kept hers right where it was, shivers chasing themselves over her skin, unable to stop staring as he pulled away the black fabric so she could see just what her hand was holding. And . . . God. All the remaining moisture in her mouth dried, and all her breath escaped. His cock was long and thick, big, like he was, and it felt smooth and hot and iron hard. Her fingers curled around it looked ridiculously small and delicate, and the hungry thing in her wanted to stroke it. Wanted to guide it to her mouth and taste him.
Phoebe swallowed. Someone was breathing very fast and she had a horrible feeling it was her.
“You want to touch me,” Nero murmured, dark and rough. “You want to suck me.”
Heat broke out all over her body. How he’d read her mind, she had no idea. But he was right, that’s exactly what she wanted to do. He’d given her what no one else ever had, and now she wanted to return the favor so badly she ached.
“I . . . d-don’t,” she said, the world’s most unconvincing denial.
Clearly he agreed, because he gave a rough laugh that shocked her, that made everything inside her shiver and stretch out in delight at the sensual sound. Because she’d never heard it before, and it was amazing.
Reaching into his back pocket, Nero got something out of it, a small silver packet. Then he held it out to her. “Put this on me.”
A condom. Of course. This was familiar territory, wasn’t it? She’d done this before many times. She reached out to take the packet, only to have Nero grip her chin and force her head back, his dark eyes meeting hers. “Don’t think of him,” he ordered. “He’s not here. Only I am.”
How did he know she’d been thinking of Charles? Again, he’d read her so easily. It made a weird sensation go through her, one she didn’t recognize. Everyone always looked at her, seeing what they wanted to see. No one looked at her and saw what she saw. What she was thinking. Why did it have to be Nero who could do this? Selfish, arrogant, domineering Nero.
Nero, who’d made her come. Who’d unlocked something inside her that wasn’t ever going to go back into the box she’d locked it in.
“Put the condom on me and then lie back,” he instructed.
And she found herself doing just that, sliding her fingers around the base of his cock and gripping him tight as she rolled the latex down, the hiss of his breath loud in her ear as she touched him. Then lying back on the pillows as he knelt between her knees, getting herself in place for him.
He gripped her thighs, tugging her down the bed before lifting her legs up and hooking them around his lean hips. The expression on his face had become more intense, feral, his gaze dropping between her thighs to her sex. And she didn’t know what to do, wanting to roll over, turn away, bring her legs up to hide herself. But he was gripping her thighs, making it impossible for her to do so.
“I d-don’t know if I can do it again.” The words escaped before she could stop them, sounding pathetic and shaky in the silence of the room. “I mean, I—”
Her voice cut off as his fingers touched her, stroking her damp curls, spreading her delicately open, like he would do a flower.
The touch sent ripples of electricity through her, and her face went hot, making her have to fling an arm over her face to protect herself, even though she had no idea what she was protecting herself from. Then the electricity became a sharp, hot jolt as his fingers found her clit, circling it slowly, lightly, teasing.
“Of course, you can do it again,” he said in that low, dark voice. “I’ll show you how.”
Phoebe shut her eyes tightly, pressing her forearm hard against her closed lids, a long-ingrained instinct making her fight the sensation. The fear that she couldn’t do it, that Nero would lose patience with her, that she just wasn’t good enough for any of this battering at her.
But it was getting harder and harder to hold out against the insistent pleasure Nero was weaving through her. His touch was slow, knowing, skillful, and when his other hand stroked one breast, pinching her nipple as he slicked a finger over her clit, she heard a choked sob escape her.
She’d tried so hard with Charles to let go, but she hadn’t managed to do it. And now she was trying so hard to hold on, yet she couldn’t do that either. Was there anything she could do right? Anything at all?
“Nero . . .” His name came out as a whisper, a prayer and a curse in one, choking off as he traced the slick folds of her sex, little circles, long straight lines, rubbing his thumb back and forth over her nipple. Making her body begin to shake and a moan caught in her throat.
“Spread your pussy for me,” he ordered, full of rough heat, caressing over each and every one of her sensitized nerve endings. “Do it, Phoebe.”
It’s too late to stop. Too late to hold out.
The realization made tears prick at her closed lids. Because of course it was too late. She was naked in bed with Nero, the first man to have ever made her come. And now he was going to do it again. And no matter how many times she told him that she didn’t want this, she did.
God, she did. Because she ached. Her body felt starved, as if Nero was its first taste of food after a famine.
A shuddering breath escaped her and without ever being conscious of making a decision, her hands were sliding down her body, her fingers shaking as she spread herself open for him.
He made a low, animal growling noise, and his hips shifted, something hot and hard pressing against the entrance to her body. Her breathing came faster, harder, but she kept her eyes shut tight, feeling too raw and too vulnerable to look at him.
Then he was pushing inside her and pushing hard, stretching her wide open. And she cried out, because he was big and she hadn’t had sex for years, and it felt like too much. Yet he didn’t stop. He took her hands, laced his fingers through hers, his body moving, his hips pressing forward, his cock sliding deeper into her. She groaned at the pressure, the feeling of fullness intensifying, and she found she had her eyes open, that his dark, brutally handsome face was inches from hers.
He brought her hands down onto the pillow on either side of her head and held them there, his black gaze pinning her as surely as his cock was impaling her. He shifted his hips again, easing all the way inside, and she was shaking.
Then he began to pull back out, almost all the way, before pushing back in. And he did it again and again. A long, slick, glide, that made her sex tighten around him and her hips move against his, and she couldn’t stop herself, because the pleasure was uncurling inside her, that sweet, irresistible pleasure, and she was powerless to stop it. She knew that now. She felt it deep in her bones.
“Let go, Phoebe.” The words were a rough order, his breath hot against her ear, his cock sliding long and slow and deep into her. “Stop fighting. Take what you need.”
Yes. She did need this. She did.
Phoebe shuddered, curled her fingers tight around his, and then she gave herself up to the insistent push of that incredible pleasure. To the slide of his cock inside her, pulling out then pressing back in, a leisurely rhythm that had her panting and shifting her hips restlessly beneath his.